The OC
by Spunky Lily
Summary: After getting busted for stealing, Angel Atwood is taken in by the Cohen family, and faces more problems than just his half-vampire identity and his rebellous, broody nature. He's fallen for another guy's girl. Specifically, the Slayer. Buffy Cooper.
1. Busted

**Disclaimer: **gidgetgirl owns the challenge and plot; Josh Schwartz and Joss Whedon own the characters and situations.

* * *

**The O.C.: The Pilot**

**Act One: Busted**

Chino, California was drowning in a thick, disgusting smog that crept in every corner of the dirty city. The young light of the dawn's first few rays barely penetrated the veil, making the sun a hazy ball of diffused, scorching white light. The summer was nearing its close, but it wouldn't go down without a fight. Temperatures, even this early in the morning, were often compared to those in Hell, or at least Death Valley. And it was this kind of weather Angel loathed the most.

He squinted his dark brown eyes, holding his hand out in front of them to cast a shadow as he stealthily entered the emergency room of the local hospital, a rush of bitter cold air conditioning blasting in his face. The young man was tall, and quite pale; kept that way by his aversion of daylight. He was not one to be distinguished from the crowds around the area; he donned a black leather trench coat (though portable oven would've been a bit closer to the mark), a pair of dark pants below that, a scruffy look about him, and a long, purposeful stride as he marched past the woman chattering at the desk. Another thing Angel disliked thoroughly; hospitals. The overpowering smell of ammonia and other sterilizers, and the presence of death and pain and fright… it was probably one of the most horrible experiences he could conceive of. Living here. Breathing in this whole place. But pondering what an appalling hospital this was wasn't what he was here for.

Doctors and nurses for the most part ignored him as they rushed past, a few directing dark glares at him, but nothing more. Angel appeared to know exactly where he was going, what he was doing, even though it was his first time doing this. He just followed the poignant smell coming from a vacant hallway nearby. Taking a second glance for any of the employees, he then made a mad dash down the corridor, eyeing the door at the end of it closely. He shoved his hand in one of the coat's pockets, reveling a hairpin he'd stolen from his mother's private collection at home. Sometimes, the old tricks worked best.

He thrust the pin into the lock, twisting it and fiddling with it a few times before the door yielded. Angel felt an even colder gust of air strike his face as he entered this room. It was a giant refrigerator, withholding what he wanted—needed—to survive. Packets of labeled blood surrounded him, like little pints of Hagaan Das ice cream calling his name. He forced quite a few into his jacket pockets, and beneath the leather. He salivated; taking in the sweet aroma he'd barely gotten acquainted with, when—

"Hands up!"

Three men in police uniforms stood stoic in the doorway, pointing their revolvers at him.

* * *

Angel stooped in the corner of his cell, staring at his fingers drumming the reinforced walls with a soft rhythm that seemed to block out all other sounds. He was fed up with just sitting here, waiting for his mother to show up and take him out of here. He was mistaken; there was a place worse than a hospital, and it was the Orange County jail.

It's not like he hadn't ever been in a penitentiary before; he'd just never been an inmate. He lied to the cops, claiming that he was stealing syringes. It made sense, much more sense that a drugged-up kid was pocketing needles rather than some precious Red Cross blood. What would they say if they knew the truth? Would they think he was some kind of cannibal? In a way, he was, but that was beside the point. He couldn't really help with his 'condition'… but the law enforcement wouldn't understand… or, for that matter, believe him.

One from the troupe of security workers unlocked the barred cell door, allowing Angel out. For a moment, he just stared pensively at the guard, then at his companion. A forty-something man with dark hair, icy blue eyes, and _enormous _eyebrows, dressed in a casual, yet work appropriate outfit. "You must be Angel Atwood," he greeted warmly as Angel forced himself off of the floor, a bit shocked. "I'm Sandy Cohen." He introduced politely, holding out a hand to shake. Angel tentatively and silently took it. "And the court's appointed me your public defender," He explained as the ambled past more cellblocks. "Since you're under eighteen—"

"I'll—Sunday'll freak," Angel whispered.

"Sunday?" Sandy repeated, raising his highly conspicuous eyebrows. "Oh, your mother, right." Angel's eyes darted to avoid Sandy's as the senior of the two continued. "Angel, look, I can plea this down to a misdemeanor. Petty fine, probation. But know this: stealing needles—I admit I don't know you too well, but I know you're much smarter than that."

"Oh," Angel shot back, his voice harsh. "Mind trying to prove that?"

"God, do I even need to talk about your SAT scores? They're amazing," he praised. "Do you have some kind of future in mind, because with this," Sandy produced a file holding the tests and his permanent record. "You've certainly got a lot of options."

"A person like me has no future," Angel insisted. "You wouldn't understand."

"I would. You, me, we're actually not that different; bad home life, no money…" Sandy trailed off, observing Angel curiously. "I know that the shit's being tossed into your fan… but if you didn't notice, I'm on your side."

He paused, as the neared the exit, making a gesture to stop. "If you need any help—" he placed a card in Angel's palm. "You've got my number."

The teen nodded. "Thanks."

"Don't hesitate to call if there's a problem."

Angel bobbed his head again. As soon as Sandy was out of sight, he sighed and sauntered down the street to his mother's car. Directing his anger at the hot sun for beating down on him with more vigor than usual, he continued on, recalling that this was just a normal thing for him. It wasn't like he was going to burst into a lick of pyre, like most of the pureblooded of his kind would, but sunshine bothered him and hurt his sensitive eyes. It also came with the broody package, so his hate of the sun was in excess.

A pale woman with skin to match her whitish-blonde hair sat behind the wheel, dressed in a veil that made her look middle eastern, hissing in an inaudible voice, "Do you know how much I had to do about this, Angel?"

When she didn't receive an answer, she continued in a loud, harsh whisper, "I was steaming! Literally! I'm surprised I didn't just explode into flames; it's, like, over a hundred degrees out there!" she paused, eyeing the teenager curiously. "Angel, are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "Though I'd rather not."

She transmitted a glare in his direction. "I'm tired of this," she stated poisonously. "One of these days, we're going to get caught, and—we—"

"What?" Angel retorted under his breath. "They're going to capture us? Put us on a pedestal and label us 'Sunday and Angel: teenage bloodsucking extraordinaires'? Well, this is _your _problem. You were the one who decided to become one of the living dead while you had me!"

Sunday gave the impression of being hurt, like she'd recently taped her tongue to the wall. But even more so, she was shocked that Angel had actually spoken up, and against _her_. "Well," she replied icily. "I'll get you out of here, but you're not coming to crash at our place anymore."

He radiated an even more threatening glare as she drove a few blocks, then opened the door on his side, and with her vampiric strength, tossed him out like a rag doll against the pavement. The car skidded away with a throbbing squeal, leaving Angel with a scrape across his jaw, and, more importantly, nowhere to go.

_"Don't hesitate to call if there's a problem."_

The small lump in his pocket seemed determined to make itself known. Angel grabbed the business card out of there, and took off to the nearby pay phone at the street corner.


	2. Secrets

**Author's Note: **Fwah. Another update within a day. Go me.

* * *

**The O.C.**

**Act Two: Secrets**

The evening was casting a shroud over Newport Beach as the sun sank beneath the Pacific's surface, making a line of a soft, glowing green at the horizon. It was cue for the young woman to immediately put up with some accusations as she nearly escaped out the door.

"Buffy—where do you think you're going?" her mother said, narrowing her sharp blue eyes as she entered the foyer.

Buffy froze, save for stuffing the pointed wooden stick in her Chanel clutch beneath the veil of her back. Assuming her mother didn't have x-ray vision, which wouldn't surprise her in the least, considering what Buffy had been through, she wouldn't be in too deep. "I'm, uh, meeting Cordy at the Crab Shack in town." She improvised, lying effortlessly. "You know, since seafood's big with the yummy." She added, offering a corny smirk.

Julie Cooper gave another contracting of her eyes at her daughter, then let up, "_Fine_, but be back before curfew."

_That was way to close for comfort. We need to get a tree in the backyard or something that I can climb out on or something, like on TV. _Buffy mused this with a slight smile playing with her lips as she walked down the sidewalk lacing the circle that had three homes perched along it; the Cooper's, the Cohen's, and an unpurchased home. She stopped her pace for a while, absorbing her surroundings. From here, she could easily see through the Cohen's windows, and sighed. She hadn't really been there since she was about twelve, but had an unspoken case of the giant green monster when it came to its occupants. Kirsten and Sandy were _so_ nice, and—weren't her parents. Well, her father, Jimmy Cooper, was fine… it was her mother, the walking rumormonger, and resident bitch… who really was—oh, she didn't know. Her relationship with her mother was rocky, and the boulders were practically raining since Buffy had learned she was a vampire slayer.

Whilst Julie probably assumed Buffy was out getting drunk and raving with all of the other socialites her age, she was in a graveyard, doing what her Watcher, the Pacific Harbor school librarian, called patrolling. Vampire killage, as Buffy so chose to call it. She had no one to talk to about it—she hadn't even told her best friend, Cordelia, about the whole thing. Not that she'd believe her. And she was better off not knowing anyway. She didn't want Cordy getting killed at the expense of knowing her secret.

Suddenly, Buffy was taken out of her contemplative state when she noticed a boy, closer to a man, was standing outside of the Cohen's driveway, leaning against the opened gate.

"Um—hey," she greeted casually, noticing her clutch wasn't zipped, and the stake's tip was dangling out obviously. Quickly, awkwardly shoving the tip into it, she added, "… who are you?"

He grinned. "Whoever you want me to be."

She closed her eyes, and crossed her fingers, opening them again. "Wait a minute, you're not Brad Pitt… you disappoint me." She teased. "So, you're… staying at Cohen's or something—"

"I'm their cousin." He rushed.

"Whatever you say," she flashed a smile. _God, you look like such a dork, Cooper. Control your flirting, woman!_ _You have a boyfriend, remember?_ "You've got a name, right? Brad Pitt perhaps?"

"Angel."

"Angel," she repeated. "Is that like Cher?"

"Angel Atwood," he amended. "You?"

"Buffy Cooper—I know, it's weird and stuff—"

"Well, you're talking to a guy named Angel…"

"True." She had a sinking, regretting feeling in her stomach as she said, "Um, I better get going—"

"Right," he replied, staring at the ground.

"Well, will I see you tomorrow?" her heart fluttered.

"I can set time aside," he tried for a smile. For her.

"Good… see you, then… Angel…" Buffy suddenly remembered something. "Wait—would—my friend, Harmony is throwing a party at her place… you wanna come?"

"Sure."

"Great—that's a big world of awesome."

That night, needless to say, patrolling was a bit abbreviated in comparison to most Friday nights. Thoughts of Angel flooded the space usually occupied by focus on her 'job', and she found herself taking more breaks to daydream, or rather, nightdream (did that even make sense?) on headstones. God, he was so pretty. And he came off as sweet. But still—the fact remained; she was taken. And it wasn't like her man wasn't too bad himself; Spike (no one was really sure if that was his real name or he was in dire need of a new nickname) reeked sexy from head to toe, and… well, she'd been with him for so long… and her mother approved, which was quite an accomplishment. But still, Angel had been added into the equation now… and… God, when she fell for somebody, she was like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup colliding with a rock.

* * *

"Oh, taking in a less-than-law abiding citizen is a _great _idea," Kirsten Cohen jeered, surprising herself by sounding like Julie more by the minute. "He stole _syringes_. Does that say anything to you?" she asked, leaning her upper body against the marble counter of their kitchen.

"He has a very big passion for an upcoming medical career?" said Sandy hopefully.

She attempted to not smile unsuccessfully, but then lapsed into rant-y mother mode once more. "And what about _Xander_?"

"What about Xander?" a teenage, dark-haired boy sauntered into the kitchen in Spider-Man pajamas and a spoonful of sorbet jammed in his mouth. "Oh, I see," he beamed, the utensil still dangling from the corner of his lips. "This is about the vase, right?"

"What vase?" Kirsten's eyes widened in alarm.

Xander popped the silverware out of his mouth. "Um, nothing—but—there's someone in our driveway…" he observed, staring out the window.

"That would be Angel—" Sandy began.

"Who?" Xander interjected.

"Angel, he's one of the kids I'm defending… he doesn't have anywhere to go…" Sandy explained.

"So, what'd he do? Pop a cap too far up someone's punkass?"

"_Alexander Cohen_…"

"Oh golly jee, Mother," Xander began sarcastically. "Jeepers, I shouldn't use that word…" he paused. "Is he staying?" he asked as Angel began up the driveway.

"Yeah," Sandy answered firmly before Kirsten could even draw a breath against it. "Just one or two nights, okay? We'll set up the guest room… he won't be any trouble, I promise."

"He said about a teenage convict." Kirsten sighed.

"Don't worry," Sandy insisted as Angel entered.

"Oh, so… you must be Angel," Kirsten remarked, studying him for a moment before offering a formal handshake. "I'm Kirsten, and this is A—"

"Xander," the fellow teen finished for her. "Xander Cohen…" he said in a James Bond esque voice.

"We'll just leave you two to talk," Sandy offered, and the Cohen parents disappeared into their own room.

"So—did you, like, kill someone or something?" Xander asked as soon as they were out of sight.

"Stole—syringes." Angel answered hesitantly, still not growing on the excuse.

"Ah, you're like…"

"No, it's… it's not like that. Bad time, bad place. That's all. Shit's being tossed in my fan."

* * *

Kirsten's dreams were plagued that night, not unlike the past few weeks. It was the same, the same horrifying memory that her mind insisted on never allowing her to forget…

_The fourteen-year-old blonde had only been in her father's building on two other previous occasions, and they were so long ago that she'd forgotten what Wolfram Hart was like. Well, aside from that fact, the whole building had been renovated, so any semblance of a memory would be proved obsolete. Luckily, she knew well that her daddy worked in one of the heads of the departments, so he was perched on the top floor. But finding his office was a whole different challenge._

_After nearly forty minutes of searching, she'd finally found the room, with her father sitting nobly, like a king of sorts, behind his desk. But he wasn't alone._

_A man dressed in tweed stood beside him, smiling slightly. "Kirsten," Caleb greeted, his not resorting to the nickname 'Kiki' making her feel unsettled. "There's someone here I'd like you to meet. His name is Quentin Travers and he's come quite a long way to find you."_

_"F-For what?" she managed to stammer._

_"Kirsten," Quentin spoke with an overpowering British accent. "I must insist that you come with me."_

_"Why?" she suddenly found her movements on autopilot as she backed away._

_"You are very special, Ms. Nichol," Quentin answered unspecifically. "You have the potential in you to become something greater than you can imagine, but to do that, you must come with me."_

_"I don't want to be great—" said Kirsten nervously as Quentin grabbed her hands, and forced her onto the wall. "Daddy!" she pleaded, shrieking. "Make him stop!" he unveiled a vile, forcing its contents down her throat. Her desire to fight back lessened, as did the images around her, and the last thing she saw was her own pleading eyes reflected in her father's unforgiving ones._


	3. Jubilee

**The O.C.**

**Act Three: Jubilee**

* * *

The sound of smacking and swishing was something all too common to be heard from the Pacific Harbor library during the summer. Inside, the Slayer and her Watcher were engaged in a full-on spar match, sweat from the roasting temperatures and relentless physical activity coated on their foreheads. Only a few months ago, Buffy had been consecutively giving demonstrations on how to kick Giles' ass. But, he too was learning well, and soon he wasn't the only one who went home with bruises. He'd become a formidable opponent for the Slayer, nearly as strong as a vampire. Both stood, motionless except for their heaving chests, waiting for the other to strike.

Buffy took the initiative, her stick slapping Giles' claves, causing him to go head over feet and make a painful landing on the tile floor. She pointed her stick a few inches from his exposed throat, ever the proud warrior, "I-I think that may be enough for today," Giles admitted as Buffy withdrew her weapon and helped him up. "Good—very good, Buffy…" he recomposed himself, collapsing to a chair next to the table. "Anything of interest last night during your patrol?"

Hesitantly, she shook her head, "Nothing really—the usual. Lotsa vampires. Lotsa slayage. Anything I should be watching my back… and the rest of me… for?"

"Well," he began, re-examining a pile of texts sprawled out on the counter. "There was quite an, em, interesting prophecy I was reading last night, during your patrol. It documented the arrival of a-a vampire, though if I'm correct, it was vampire, who was not a vampire."

"Gee, these people who write these texts really like their metaphors," said Buffy. "So, how do I kill it?"

"Apparently, there's no way you can—it's as if you're not supposed to," Giles answered.

"But it's a vampire," the Slayer countered. "It's bad—right?"

"Well, it's supposed to bring about an apocalypse, but other than that—"

Buffy's eyebrows furrowed. "It's not bad, but it'll bring about the apocalypse… wow."

"It—it isn't quite clear, Buffy," he said, taking off his small-framed glasses. "But… well, I'll work on it. As for now, we must focus on tonight's patrol…"

"But tonight is _Saturday_ night," the blonde teenager whined. "I've got much better things to do than to stake the undead."

"Such as?"

"A party at Harmony's," Buffy glared at Giles as he chuckled. "What—it's important!"

"Why, may I ask?" he struggled in tearing the bemused expression away.

"Well… you wouldn't understand… you're old… and male… and wear tweed."

"Ah, I see."

* * *

"Wow. I've been here my whole life, and I don't even think I've talked to a girl who wasn't my mom, and here you are, oh, two minutes, and you get invited to a party!" Xander observed, flopped on the couch with Angel, watching the Saturday morning cartoons.

"It's not like I'm trying… she… she seems really… sweet," Angel said fondly, dressed in a set of Xander's pajamas, which looked a bit awkward on him.

"You know Buffy has a man, right?" Xander asked after awhile, still slightly hypnotized by _Teen Titans_.

A hole in his stomach expanded. "No." he admitted ruefully.

"Guess you have some competition, forehead boy," Xander said distantly.

"Forehead boy?"

"Yes, I dub thee forehead boy," Xander replied seriously. "I mean, look, your forehead is _huge_."

Changing the subject without a second thought, Angel asked, "So, you got a girlfriend?" he waited, and then amended, "Or a girl you have in mind?"

"Cordelia," he answered instantly. "She's—amazing… I've had a crush on her since I was… oh, about four." He thought about something for a moment. "You know, Cordy is Buffy's best friend—so… she's bound to be at the big party scene, right?"

"I guess."

"So—maybe I could come along, do some good ole… um… stuff, and then—"

"You can ride off in a giant onion and live happily ever after?"

"That works."

* * *

"Harm," Cordelia Chase began, surveying her friend with an experienced set of dark eyes. "You look _gross_. I mean, who are you and what have you done with Harmony? You _obviously_ haven't been to a tanning salon in too long…" The bronze goddess immediately had her eyes darted from her radiant tan body, with cascading, deep brunette locks, to her comrade's pallid, blonde one. "And I haven't seen you in forever, either. Buffy and I have been wigging out when your cell keeps and going and going and going, like the freakin' Energizer bunny!"

"Well, summer's… changed me," Harmony replied, acting much like she was cooler than a refrigerator in Antarctica. She flipped the tofu burger, broadcasting her frustration to the greater Newport Beach region as it managed to slip between the grill into the soft, glowing orange charcoal.

"Buffy!" Cordelia greeted, momentarily ignoring her other friend's irritation. "'S'bout time you showed up at a party. Where has my rave buddy been?"

"Busy," the blonde replied, tossing her hair back as a group of boys dashed towards the beach past her. "You know, with mom."

"Oh, don't I know it," Cordy sighed. "My stepmom—wow. They added some Prozac… and she's been a-bitchin'—" she cut herself off, her eyes sparkling as they fell onto the porch. "—Hello, salty goodness."

"Angel?" Buffy whispered, somewhat surprised that he'd showed up. And brought Xander, too.

There he was, in all of this sexy glory; hair spiked, a sheer wife beater beneath the long leather jacket, and black slacks. He needn't make a huge effort, like all of the others there. Buffy herself even spent an hour in front of the mirror, along with time spent showering, dressing into a lacy white tank and far-too-short shorts, and thinking about _him_. Oh yeah, she was crushing like a little seventh grader on the substitute English teacher. Only in this case, much younger, and much, much more… hot.

And just like seventh grader Buffy, to-be-junior Buffy stood there, smiling like an idiot with the tips of her ears turning a heavy shade of magenta. As he sauntered down the porch and onto the sand, engaging in an inaudible conversation with Xander, Buffy gave a slight wave in his direction.

"You know him?" Cordelia asked. "Oh, you can totally hook him up with me!"

Satisfied as Angel walked over with purposeful strides, Buffy flashed a million watt smirk. "Hi, Angel… I'm really glad you came," she greeted with outmost sincerity, the reddening on her ears spreading like a virus down to her lobes and a small splash on her cheeks. "Oh, these are my friends—Cordelia and Harmony."

"I'm Xander Cohen," Xander nodded in Cordy's direction, disappointed when he held out his hand, and it was not taken.

"Hello Angel!" Cordy added, vying for his attention.

Buffy suddenly jumped, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of arms wrapping themselves around her waist. "Spike," she said softly, reality sinking in. She cleared her throat, "Um… Angel, this—this is Spike."

"And who's Nancy-Boy-Hair-Gel-Man?" Spike asked, chuckling lightly as he began to sway to the motion of the ocean's distant crashes.

Angel glared, correcting, "Angel."

Spike burst out laughing. "Angel?" he repeated.

Cordelia glanced around, interrupting the squabble, noticing the lack of Harmony's presence. "Where'd _she_ go?"

"Dunno," the others chorused, halfway in unison.

Under the floorboards of the porch, nestled in the sand, Harmony flashed a beam at the adorable, shirtless boy lying close to her. "You're so cute!" she squealed. The boy stared back in horror as Harmony's face contorted, her eyebrows disappearing and rising up, making her appear extremely frustrated.

"Cute enough to eat!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **God, you don't have any idea how fun it is to write this! Anyway, I'm really proud of this fic, and I'm glad so many people like this! Now, to ask the reviewers; would you rather have the episodes be one big fanfic, or released as separate episodes? Your opinion would be appreciated more than you know.

And, next chapter; the party turns into a booze and blood fest…


	4. Home

**The O.C.**

**Act Four: Home**

* * *

Shafts of subdued moonlight from above pierced through the enormous tree hanging above her, making the sidewalk a dark pathway riddled with spots. Buffy stared downward, watching the light speckles dance across her shoes and ascend up her legs and body as she paced. She'd fled the scene once Spike and Angel seemed prepared to nibble each other's heads off. She already had enough of stuff like this to be dealt with when it came to the whole home situation; her parents had been consistently bickering the past few weeks, and the air in the Cooper house had turned tense. The girl couldn't help but believe that it was her fault, that she had possibly been the whole cause of this, that her confidential slayerhood was driving everyone mad. Even her little sister, Dawn, was always up her butt about being away from home all the time, and picked fights with Julie more often. Which was highly unusual; where Buffy had been Daddy's girl, Dawn was wholeheartedly her mother's child. But, she didn't really know what went up with her little sis, since her presence was rare, and usually less than memorable, filled with tons of whininess. It was almost as if she didn't even exist.

Though she had no one there to flaunt it to, she sighed, zipping open the clutch tucked firmly in her deodoranted armpits. The twin stakes cradled in there were no surprise, along with a fifty-dollar bill, a compact, and lip-gloss, but something foreign was amongst her belongings. It was a clear bottle, just wide enough to fit in without a struggle, filled with some unknown alcoholic beverage she'd snatched from the Kendall's liquor cabinet. It had been there for only a few minutes, but stole every inch of her thoughts, the glass waiting impatiently to make contact with her lips and sear her throat with its alcohol. And she wanted it, too.

She fingered it gingerly, but withdrew her contact when she sensed a pulse of movement from behind her. "H-Harmony," she jumped a little. "You—big with the scary these days? Shouldn't you be back at the party?"

"Well, I was a fabulously scary vampire for Halloween last year," she replied shrilly.

Buffy narrowed her eyes. "Harm, you were a Playboy squirrel. Brown string bikini and fluffy tail giving off any memory vibes?"

"Right," she said, adding a hiss of, "Still doesn't mean I can't be scary."

"You've been in some form of a squirrel costume for Halloween since you were two," Buffy chuckled nervously. "You're not scary."

"Well—shut up Buffy," she defended lamely. "What's in the bag?"

"Um—Tinkerbell."

"Really? Let me see!"

"Learn the art of sarcasm," Buffy suggested.

"But—" Harmony slid a finger across the light pink silk. "I wanna see."

"Okay, Harmony," Buffy said slowly, retreating away the clutch. "_Now _you're being scary."

"You know what, Coop?" Harmony bellowed. "_You're_ the scary one. The whole sophomore year, you've been rejecting us… this whole _summer_. We're supposed to be having the time of our lives here, and all you've been doing is sitting around avoiding us!"

"And what about you, huh? Going all pale and creepy?"

"_Shut up_!" with that, Buffy saw something all too familiar, yet it was something that came as a complete, totally unpleasant surprise. A crest of skin furrowed over her friend's eyebrows, concealing them and making her look horrifying. Her eyes were dominated by an iris the color of a tiger's, and her teeth not too dissimilar to a tiger's fangs, either.

"No way," Buffy denied, whispering. _Oh no…_

She'd seen a situation comparable to this about a month ago. The party host was an upperclassman, dark, curly hair, dreamy hazel eyes, and a hot bod to boot, and recently turned into a vampire. So recently, in fact, that no one had noticed his change. So, when the patrons of a bash he hosted arrived at his house, they suspected nothing suspicious. She'd staked him, but not before he and his little pack of vamps had sired and/or ate at least four people. Harmony was probably mimicking his act, and it wasn't a bad plan. It was an easy way to show your position in the power hierarchy as a vamp, and she wanted to climb to the top as fast as she could.

Bet she didn't count on her friend being the Slayer.

But, who knew how many were already dead? One thought raced across her mind, her only concern at the moment. _Angel… and Spike, Cordy, and Xander… I've gotta get them out of here before…_

BOOM.

And with that, her world faded into darkness.

* * *

"Hah!" Harmony Kendall cried, pointing a finger at the feeble, unconscious Slayer lying on the asphalt. "Take that, pretty, stupid Buffy Cooper! That's what you get for messing with the… the Harmonica!" she jeered, sticking out her tongue and planting her hands on her hips as her game face faded away. "Now, what was in that bag?" she said to herself, bending over and snatching the expensive clutch and forcing it open. "A stake?" she giggled. "Buffy's the _Slayer_? This could get interesting… Buffy the vampire Slayer… has a nice ring to it… but Harmony the vampire sounds much, much better." She mused, and realized something. Dammit! Where were her _minions_? The plan wasn't going to work out without them! Why didn't she bring backup?

Harm gave a quick glance and double take at before leaving Buffy unattended. She grabbed the slim girl by the shoulders, dragging her behind a garbage can that didn't really serve well as fortress to hide her body. Her legs still stuck out. Stupid Slayer legs. Oh well.

With that, she took off through the front door into the heart of the party, with people already sprawled out across the floor, passed out after one too many shots, and a distinct odor of marijuana wafting through the air. Of course, now that she was among the undead, it didn't matter; any non-supernatural substance wouldn't even touch her body. Her eyes flickered around the room, prying for the little troupe of minions. Stupid, naïve (what did that word mean, anyway?—she wasn't sure, but she was pretty certain it was somewhere along the lines of stupid or something) vampire boys. Oh—there they were. Gathered in a small group in the kitchen playing… _Spider-Man _Monopoly?

"Ahem!" Harmony cleared her throat. When she received no attention, she said, "What kind of losers play Monopoly? I mean, the money's not even real. And—you gu-uys… I need you _now_. Please? Aren't you guys even hungry?" she held no conviction for the vampires to indulge in. "I've got a Slayer…"

"Yeah right," one scoffed.

"Oh, really? It's Buffy Cooper. I knocked her out." She boasted. "We've got control, and even a yummy Slayer for dessert." This finally convinced the vampires after a bit of reluctance. Harmony glanced around, the occupants of the room either vampiric or too stoned to realize what was going to happen. So they were good to go. Ridges laced their predatory yellow eyes, and their canines dangled savagely out of their mouths. "Okay guys, we need to, um, block everything off. Our… uh… um… _prey _can't escape," Harmony's brows furrowed even more. "I can't believe you people! I know how to choreograph stuff! I was a ballerina!"

From the opposite side of the counter, a dark-haired boy cautiously lifted his head.

"Well, if you're a ballerina, then I know kur-ra-tae," Xander Harris threatened with mild sarcasm, clenching his fists for all to see. "You wanna take me on, huh? Huh, huh, huh? You wanna go? I've seen _Blade_—I know what I'm doing."

"Harris, stop embarrassing yourself, you loser," Harmony laughed. "You're just little vamp chow… um, pathetic human!"

"Hey—guy! Your little trip to the bathroom taking a bit long?" Cordelia mocked, cut off by her eyes falling on the vampires, game faces and all. "Oh. My. God."

"Hi Cordy," Xander said. "Uh—little problem on my hands…"

Cordelia tried to make her legs move, but the command was lost somewhere between her brain and her thighs.

Angel and Spike bumped into her from behind. "Hey, watch it, Tan Glow," said Spike, his eyes, too, falling on the vampires. "Bloody hell."

Harmony seized Xander's neck before he could strike a punch. "If you move, geek boy's throat goes into his spine."

"Good thing they're not moving."

A blur of motion kicked Harmony into a section of cabinets, tearing the wood into splinters. Once the dust had cleared a bit, the vampire saw her attacker. The Slayer. "Spike, Cordy; get the others out of here!" Buffy commanded forcefully, and the pair obeyed with internal questioning, but did so anyway. "You… all of you, get out of here!"

Xander, still ruefully rubbing his neck on the tile floor, said, "No, not until we get some kind of, oh, you know, explanation."

"There isn't _time_!" she yelled hoarsely, tossing one of the minions with almost a playful gesture. The vampire wouldn't go down without a fight, though. She kicked the Slayer in the gut, launching herself out of a window to leave the Slayer on the ground bleeding and quickly falling into unconsciousness once more. The last minion that hadn't fled or gotten injured made his move on Buffy, grabbing the discarded stake. Suddenly, Angel sprinted and launched himself at the creature, and without realizing it, had his game face on. Angel groped for a pointed piece of cabinetry as they both hit the floor, and staked the vampire effortlessly.

"You—Angel—you're—a…" Angel saw something die in Buffy's intense green eyes. He couldn't remember not loving her eyes. They said everything her mouth didn't. They were the forecast of her mood. And now—it was predicting hate, disappointment, and utter despair. And he hated not gazing into them, even if they were radiating pessimism, but fate didn't seem to care, and Buffy's eyes shuddered and closed. She'd fainted. His game face fell, and he wanted, more than anything, to explain. She—she thought he was a vampire. Well, he was… but only more like a half-vampire.

"Angel."

And then there was Xander.

"Xander—I'm not what you think—I'm not one of them. I'm not gonna hurt you… I'm not gonna hurt anybody… I swear to God," Angel's eyes pleaded this, with more sincerity than ever. "Just—I'm so sorry you had to find out like this. I hope you don't think—"

"You kidding? You're like Blade, right? Part bad guy, mostly good guy?"

"Right."

"Then there's nothing to fear. But… I officially dub thee Dead Boy."

"Oh, come on."

"Dead Boy you are. Like Hellboy. Only not as cool."

Angel's eyes darted to Buffy. "Xander, you go home… I've got something to take care of."

She was so fragile. So thin.

* * *

He carried the girl in his arms like he would a porcelain doll; with great delicacy and care. Her heart fluttered gently, like the beating of a butterfly's wings, against his chest, creating a rhythm he couldn't get out of his mind. For the warrior of her people, she sure was vulnerable. Or so it seemed.

He marched along the circular sidewalk; sauntering past the mailbox marked 'Cooper', and to the mat marked with the same name. At this stop, he pampered himself to one last glance at that perfect face. Angel set the girl down gently on the doormat, and placed a kiss on her forehead. A little color filtered in his cheeks as he ambled home.

And lying there, a smile spread across Buffy Cooper's lips.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So there you have it. That's the Buffy interpretation of the pilot of _The O.C._ I'm going with gidgetgirl's idea on this; one season shall have its own fic… so there.

**What's Next: **The arrival of Willow as Lindsay, much, much more on the parental front… and other stuff. Fwah.


	5. Sneak

**The O.C.**

**Episode Two: The Model Home**

**Teaser**

* * *

Xander Cohen's body was probably more active in keeping itself from not dying of adrenaline than it ever was in its entire existence. His heart was going a million miles an hour, and his stomach was still somersaulting, even as he creaked the door to a close. Every noise in the house seemed to be amplified—maybe it went hand in hand with the whole adrenaline theory, or perhaps it was because that he was paranoid that any sound-making would result in the waking up of parents, and therein, major groundation. Ambling across the living room, he dropped one foot on the single step leading to more floor space, with the other faltering and tripping. "Shit! My foot, my foot!" Xander cried.

"Alexander."

"Shit! My mom, my mom!" Xander amended. His eyes fell on his mother's blue ones observing him in a manner frighteningly similar to when those eagles on the Discovery Channel were about to impale baby bunnies with their talons. He imagined that a similar punishment was in order.

"Where have you _been_?" Kirsten offered the most obvious question first.

"IMAX Theater?" Xander replied weakly, and then changed the subject. "You know, with _Return of the Jedi _coming out next… someday, we should probably buy tickets in advan—"

"Alexander."

"Ah, she woos me with the use of the unabbreviated first name. Very classy. Very swift." Xander countered, ever the fine procrastinator.

"I can explain, Mrs. Cohen."

"Almighty Zeus, don't do that! At least make a _little_ noise when you enter a room." Xander suggested to a disheveled Angel in the midst of the living room.

"I—took him to a party that went a bit later than I thought." Angel continued honestly, not admitting the whole truth. "I—I'm sorry."

"Angel, you're hurt," Kirsten observed, deciding that conveying anger right now wasn't the most amazing idea. "You—"

"I'm okay." He interjected.

Kirsten, against her better judgment, let it fly by and continued with the interrogation. "Why exactly were you at this party without me knowing about it?"

"Buf—" Angel covered Xander's mouth before he could say any more. "Um, Mrs. Cohen… it's kind of late… can we do the whole punishment thing tomorrow?"

Kirsten sighed, uncharacteristically giving in again. "Okay—but tomorrow it is. And—Angel, I set up a bed in the poolhouse… so you don't have to sleep… on the couch."

"Thanks."

* * *

Angel couldn't sleep.

Sitting there, staring up at the fan blowing cool air over his body just dressed in boxers and covered in white linens. He sighed and rolled over, flipping the pillow to make a cold spot for his head. It was still hot, even at night, and apparently the poolhouse could provide no air conditioning whatsoever.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow would be his last day here. Then were? Back to Sunday? He couldn't, he—it was impossible to think about. He might have even liked it here—Xander was a really cool person, and it was a wonder he didn't have many friends, and Buffy—God, Buffy… she was so—everything.

This might be the last night that he would spend in a real bed in a long, long time.

* * *

**Author's Note:** And that would be cue for the theme song :) For the next chapter, I'm bringing in Willow a bit early, she's actually going to be more of a blend between the position of Anna and Lindsay more than just strictly Lindsay. 


End file.
